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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028682">his body’s a ship with an impenetrable hull</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras'>arekiras</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i have run through the fields of pain and sighs [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Dysphoria, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trans Lavellan (Dragon Age), Trans Male Character, basically being a trans guy dating a cis gay guy can make you feel kind of insecure, but there’s also sexual nudity, but we stan two kings of communication, frank discussion of a trans body, non-sexual nudity, so I mean watch out for that, trans author</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:14:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As their relationship develops, Dorian and Ematuelanuren discuss Ematuelanuren’s relationship with his body, Dorian’s sexuality, and what it means to be a man who loves men.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i have run through the fields of pain and sighs [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>his body’s a ship with an impenetrable hull</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Back with more trans inquisitor. Find me @transamatus on tumblr. <br/>Content warning: This fic discusses the inquisitor’s trans body in blunt detail in a non-sexual context. There is a brief mention of the inquisitor having breasts and a vagina.<br/>Title from Body Was Made by Ezra Furman</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dorian leans back against the headboard of the Inquisitor’s bed, chest shaking with uneven breaths, trousers hanging from the foot of the bed and tunic further away on the rug before the fire. The cool air blowing in from the open balcony doors chills the sweat on his skin, making him shiver. Ematuelanuren is contrastingly warm and solid in his lap, smiling like the cat that got the canary. He’s also almost fully dressed, only missing his coat. Dorian had managed to fumble the first few buttons of his shirt open before he was too busy rolling his hips up into Ematuelanuren’s hand to continue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Andraste’s tits, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he breathes, knocking his head back against the solid wood of the headboard with a small chuckle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ematuelanuren only smiles wider, sliding from Dorian’s lap and crossing the room to the wash basin, dunking a cloth into the water, ringing it out, and throwing it on Dorian’s lap. He settles down in the bed beside him, ankles crossed, as Dorian cleans himself up and looks over. Ematuelanuren has placed his wire rimmed reading spectacles on his nose and is gazing down at a book Josephine suggested he read on Orlesian heraldry, cool as you please. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you not want me to reciprocate?” Dorian asks, feeling somewhat awkward beneath the post orgasmic glow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>vhenan</span>
  </em>
  <span>, don’t worry about it. I got everything I wanted,” he smiles sweetly, leaning in and kissing Dorian’s cheek, sliding over to sit closer to his side. Dorian raises his eyebrows and shrugs, resting his cheek against the crown of Ematuelanuren’s head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They have a few more encounters like that: Dorian undresses at least most of the way and Ematuelanuren takes him in hand (and once, gloriously, earth-shatteringly, in his mouth), gets him off, and denies any contact of his own. Aside from fumbling over clothes, Dorian hasn’t touched Ematuelanuren below the neck of his shirt. Dorian is mostly content to not push, mainly due to the finality with which Ematuelanuren turns him down. Gently, but decisively. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian notices, as well, that whenever they sleep in the same bed or tent, Ematuelanuren is always under the covers or in his bedroll first, shucking his pants but keeping a thick shirt on. In the morning, he always rises first as well, dressing before Dorian can even see properly and setting about pouring tea. Still, Dorian can hardly point out anyone else’s intimacy issues or insecurities. He still has to physically force himself not to flee after every intimate encounter, not to recoil when he wakes in the night, finding himself curled in the arms of another man. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s content to let Ematuelanuren come to terms with this issue in his own time. Currently, the elf is pouring over letters forwarded from Josephine. A pile of missives from diplomatic contacts and potential financial supporters, Orlesian nobility and even the king of the Anderfels. Ematuelanuren sighs, stretches, and cracks his back. Scratches away with his quill. Shifts. Groans. Cracks his neck. Stands up, stretches, sits again. Another sigh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Problems, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Dorian asks, looking up from his own letter from Maevaris. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Well, yes. Just a bit sore, from all the desk work, you know. Back and neck aches,” Ematuelanuren gestures dismissively. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m familiar,” Dorian pauses, considering. “I could give you a massage, if you like.” Ematuelanuren scoffs and looks up, in the middle of an eye roll, but stops when he sees that Dorian is gazing at him guilelessly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re serious,” Ematuelanuren says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite serious.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s very kind, Dorian, but you don't have to. I’ll be fine,” Ematuelanuren says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d be happy to do it. Getting my hands on you is no hardship, don’t worry,” Dorian teases, and immediately kicks himself when Ematuelanuren stiffens visibly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ematuelanuren’s expression shutters closed and Dorian feels quite like he’s just been shown the door. He hasn’t, however, and so just sits on the settee, book still in his lap. “Honestly, I’m worried if I get any more comfortable than this, I’ll go to sleep and never wake up. Which would please Corypheus, I’m certain, but definitely not our ambassador,” Ematuelanuren says calmly, but Dorian knows that tone. The same one he uses on visiting dignitaries and milling Chantry mothers. Professional and cold. A step above snarling like a cornered animal. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian clears his throat. “If I overstepped, I apologize. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ematuelanuren sighs, leaning back in his seat and shedding his reading glasses. “I know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>vhenan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s nothing, don’t worry.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not a very good liar, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus. </span>
  </em>
  <span>At least,” Dorian amends, “Not to me.” Ematuelanuren smiles a little at this, but only shrugs again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t like being bare. In front of anyone,” he says. Then, more quietly, he adds, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>In front of you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian tries not to be offended by this, and mostly succeeds. Instead of saying anything, worried he’d break the spell that has conjured Ematuelanuren into emotional openness, he stays still and silent. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re attracted to men,” Ematuelanuren says, “and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>a man, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>I know you genuinely see me as such. We never would have gotten here, had you not. Still, a part of me can’t help but be worried that if you see me, you’ll… change your mind. That you only view me so wholly as a man because you haven’t seen what's under my clothes. Knowing intellectually what I look like under here,” he gestures to his shirt, “and seeing it for yourself are different things.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You think I won’t want you?” Dorian, again, tries not to be offended. Succeeds a bit less than the first time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think that you’ve spent a very long time aching over your attraction to men, what it means for you and for your existence within your culture. I think that what your culture considers a man is very different from what they’d consider </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Ematuelanuren replies, looking from the balcony doors to the desk to the mural on the wall, anywhere but Dorian. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to not want me, Dorian. Or, worse, I don’t want you to want me </span>
  <em>
    <span>in spite </span>
  </em>
  <span>of my body. Like you’ll weather it because it’s me, but you won’t find me attractive. I couldn’t stand that. So, as long as I stay dressed, it isn’t a problem I have to face,” Ematuelanuren finishes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ll stay buttoned up to the neck forever?” Dorian asks archly. Ematuelanuren blushes under the warm brown of his skin, and Dorian softens. “I don’t want you </span>
  <em>
    <span>in spite </span>
  </em>
  <span>of anything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I want you because of everything you are.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ematuelanuren finally meets his eyes and nods, before frowning, seeming to steel himself. He rises from his chair and sheds his coat, then his silken red scarf. His vest is next, unbuttoned with mechanical movements and dropped onto the chair behind him. He removes his belt as well, the slide of leather through the loops loud in the suddenly very quiet room. Dorian might be more inclined to leer and enjoy the view of his lover undressing if it wasn’t happening with such grim, militant precision. Each movement of his fingers a step toward the gallows. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He kicks off his boots and shoves his pants down his thighs, leaving him in his shirt, smalls, and socks. He unbuttons the shirt and pauses, looking up at Dorian again. Dorian stays still, meeting Ematuelanuren’s gaze levelly. The shirt falls to the floor in a whisper of fabric. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beneath, he is wearing a tight vest, laced so tightly up the front Dorian wonders if he can breathe. He pulls at the laces with practiced ease, but Dorian catches his relieved sigh when they come loose. He places the vest on the desk with care, and turns back to Dorian, hands twitching by his sides. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As Dorian had suspected, Ematuelanuren is corded with lean muscle, arms toned from years of wielding a staff and legs strong from a nomadic lifestyle. He has a healthy peppering of freckles, moles, and scars scattered across his torso. His breasts are small, stunted by the treatment Ematuelanuren takes to keep a masculine form and flattened by daily binding. He has a light smattering of hair on his stomach leading down to the waist of his small clothes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian takes all of this in calmly and blinks back up at Ematuelanuren, expression rather bland. Ematuelanuren just meets his gaze, eyes wild with nerves. “I’m sorry, did you expect me to flee the room?” Dorian asks with a twist of one corner of his mouth. Ematuelanuren’s face twists, trying to decide whether to scowl or laugh. Instead of doing either of those things, he pushes his small clothes down off his hips and leaves them to puddle on the floor around his ankles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If Dorian were a different man, he may have blushed at the bluntness of it. As it is, he’s not quite sure if he should look, but Ematuelanuren’s jaw is set challengingly. Dorian looks. Strong, muscled thighs, thatch of wiry dark hair. No cock. Dorian looks back into Ematuelanuren’s face. “Well?” The Inquisitor demands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you cold?” Dorian asks casually, rising to close the balcony doors. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A bit,” Ematuelanuren admits. “So. That’s it?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry to disappoint you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Did you want that massage?” he gestures to the bed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Ematuelanuren says slowly, turning and approaching the bed. Dorian does take a moment to ogle his lover’s ass. He’s only human, after all. Ematuelanuren sits on the bed, watching Dorian as he spreads a towel out and shoves the pillows out of the way, gesturing for Ematuelanuren to lay on his stomach. The elf does so, resting his cheek upon the bed and watching as Dorian examines the different scented oils by the bath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you done this before?” Ematuelanuren asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian just gives him a teasing smile. “Jealous?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just curious. It’s common enough for clan hunters to massage each other, and healers do it to help with pain and injury, though not quite like this,” Ematuelanuren says as Dorian sits beside his hip, rubbing the oil between his palms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean you don’t strip naked and oil each other up in the middle of camp? Shame,” Dorian begins at Ematuelanuren’s neck, digging in at the base and stifling a laugh when all he gets is a long groan in reply. “My, someone is tense.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Being Inquisitor can get a bit stressful at times. Who knew?” Ematuelanuren replies, moaning when Dorian moves to rub small circles at the base of his skull, fingers just meeting his hair. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Careful, they’ll hear you all the way in the rookery at this rate,” Dorian says on a laugh as Ematuelanuren whines every time Dorian kneads at the meat of his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ematuelanuren scoffs. “Mother Giselle will be beside herself.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll thank you to not mention clucking chantry hens while I have you naked and oily, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Dorian says, digging his thumbs into the rigid muscles of Ematuelanuren’s shoulders, “That’s hardly what I want on my mind.” Ematuelanuren relaxes slowly, in minuscule increments. Dorian is gratified by it, able to feel every single shift beneath his hands. He doesn’t respond to Dorian’s teasing, simply digging his face further into the pillows beneath him and sighing heavily. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Really, Dorian, where did you learn how to do this?” Ematuelanuren asks as Dorian runs a firm touch down his spine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The book of my life is long, dearest. Several volumes at least. It also includes quite a few all male boarding schools. Fascinating the things young men will come up with simply to have an excuse to touch another man,” Dorian says mysteriously. Ematuelanuren snorts, which is an unattractive sound objectively, but Dorian finds himself terribly endeared by it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe for you uptight human types,” he says, the superiority of his tone somewhat tempered by the fact that he’s mumbling into his pillow with his eyes closed in bliss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh? Have you never done anything ridiculous to get your hands on the skin of another man?” Dorian teases, skirting gentle fingers around the edges of a mottled purple bruise in the middle of Ematuelanuren’s lower back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Became leader of an Inquisition and laid claim to the Mage Rebellion,” Ematuelanuren says, popping open an eye to look at Dorian. Dorian looks back, a large, foolish grin stretching across his mouth. It’s ridiculous how clumsy flirtations can make him feel so warm, full of light inside. Like a teenager imagining what love feels like, but not truly hoping. This is what a young Dorian never allowed himself to hope for, but managed to dream of anyway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And did it do the trick?” Dorian asks coyly, one hand simply resting in the dip of Ematuelanuren’s waist now. Ematuelanuren shifts onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so,” Ematuelanuren says, smiling widely. He sits up more fully, leaning in to kiss Dorian, sweet and chaste, before flopping back down and sighing contentedly. He lays flat on his stomach on the bed, arms and legs splayed bonelessly, and Dorian can’t help but laugh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll catch a cold,” Dorian admonishes, pulling the bed coverings out from beneath his love and tucking him in as Emtuelanuren nuzzles the pillow beneath his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not if you stay and warm me up,” Ematuelanuren mumbles, closing his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian smiles, running a hand over Ematuelanuren’s dark hair. “I suppose it’s only right, to protect you from the inclimate weather.” He stands long enough to shed his top layers, leaving him in warm leggings and little else. Then, he slides into bed beside Ematuelanuren, pulling him close. Dorian rests his nose against the crown of Ematuelanuren’s head, breathing in the warm, clean smell. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Ematuelanuren says softly, “For the massage, and… everything else.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian tightens his grip on Ematuelanuren’s waist. “You’re the man I want, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amatus. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That includes all of you. I won’t shy away just because your body is different from mine. It’s hardly something that should be considered extraordinary.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Should be’ doesn’t often have any influence over what is,” Ematuelanuren points out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re right. It doesn’t. But between us, I think it can. This is only as good a thing as we make it,” Dorian says gently. He thinks back to when they first started </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how he had scoffed and balked at Ematualanuren suggesting that they have a relationship, a partnership that extends outside of hurried encounters where no one could see. How he had backed away, feeling cornered, while Ematuelanuren had looked at him with his large, guileless eyes and calmly shaken the very foundations of all that Dorian knew to be true. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had given Dorian room to hope for more, to strive for more, while also allowing him to take every step of his own volition. At first, it had felt so momentous to hold hands on purpose, in public, where everyone could see. To face the whispers that followed and know that they meant nothing, that they could not harm him. This knowledge had not completely silenced the ugly shame that reared its head inside of him, for it had taken root in such a deep, secret place that not even Dorian knew how to suss it out. He has known that shame longer than he knew he liked men. It had been there, waiting for him, the first time he ever looked at one of his schoolmates with something other than friendly admiration. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He had come a long way since then, to now be the one offering counsel and comfort in times of uncertainty. Not long ago, admitting, out loud, that Ematuelanuren is the man he wants would have been unthinkable. Not long ago, too, Ematuelanuren would never have bared himself like this to Dorian. Such vulnerability was beyond him, in a strange place with strange people. They are both capable of change, it seems, happy and warm in each other’s arms like this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dorian is about to remark on that fact, the growth of their relationship from such fragile beginnings to what it is now, when a small snuffle breaks the silence. Dorian pauses, lips pursed, and gazes down at Ematuelanuren’s face. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly open, fast asleep. His deep, even breaths puff warmly against the skin of Dorian’s neck. Dorian suppresses a chuckle, settling in more comfortably with an arm slung over Ematuelanuren’s middle and his cheek pressed against the elf’s hairline. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Certainly this will be a stunning sight for whatever poor messenger that comes to disturb the Inquisitor later on behalf of one of his advisors, and will result in stares and unsubtle whispering, but right now Dorian is warm and utterly content to allow those problems to belong to later. The only things that belong to right now are the press of warm skin, the orange tinge of sun shining off of the snow capped mountains outside, the crackle of the fire, and Ematuelanuren’s hair beneath Dorian’s cheek. </span>
</p>
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